River oats mocking me.
Help me. No one hears me
over these damn catfish for cars
off Highway Who Gives a Fuck Sixty.
I’m not okay, not hardly, brown cow—
Where the water? Why the muck-sky?
Who’s polluting my last light here?
It’s not funny—my drowning.
It’s honestly kind of freaking me out.
Night like Chevron flooding the Ford
& the stars are all
traitors, drowning themselves.
Forget them. Here come my wrists
up a-daffodil-y-ing,
up-down my good side. It’s blood
money, honey—Your buck knife
can’t cut me loose from this sunk
car stereo in my mouth, my goodnight
Dixie cup to the brim with mud.
All I ever wanted was this mouth, this skin
to wear when it’s not enough
to bet on beauty—alone, absurd
at the cusp—
algae & anyway
deplorable. Gurgle
the mud, son. Pretty soon
is all you can ask for.
How the coffee?
How slow The American Ending?
Is it just me or am I myself
the fish flopping, Won’t somebody save me
from my shit?
